


The Backer

by Demerite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety/PTSD, Drinking to Cope, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Past Sexual Assault, References to Drugs, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2684747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demerite/pseuds/Demerite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Amis have a new financial backer, who is willing to fund their protests to raise awareness and donate money to worthy causes in their name, without wanting anything in return. It all seems to good to be true, and when Grantaire realises that this man has a connection to his past,  this proves to be correct. </p><p>But things are darker than they seem, and Grantaire has a choice to make about his future. Will he be able to stay with the Amis, or will his painful history pull him away not only from the cause, but from Enjolras as well?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While this fic does not contain any explicit rape scenes, there will be mentions of sexual assault and non-graphic flashbacks in certain scenes. I will of course be posting warnings on individual chapters for anyone who is upset or triggered by subject matter of this nature. 
> 
> This chapter has warnings for: Nightmares, and drinking as a coping mechanism.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has warnings for: Nightmares, and drinking as a coping mechanism.

“Fuck.” Grantaire groans, running his hands over his face, feeling the rough drag of stubble against his palms. It’s 3am on what is now a Tuesday, and he’d wanted to get some more sleep, but his subconscious had other ideas, throwing the worst it could dig up in his direction until sleep was no longer an option. Not that he’s bothered by the nightmares; by the time he falls asleep most nights he’s either so drunk or so exhausted that they don’t register, but tonight had been especially bad, and Grantaire is sick of waking up shaking, wondering if anyone heard him screaming. No-one ever seems to, and he’s not entirely sure he’s relieved about that. 

He turns the cold tap on, watches the water run into the sink for a minute before cupping his hands under it and splashing his face, flinching at the way it feels; like icy needles being driven into his skin. It serves its purpose though, waking him enough to shuffle back into his bedroom, turn on the light and look for some clothes. In his search for a t-shirt, he disturbs Pandora, who lifts her tricoloured head and mews at him in complaint, displeased with being bothered at such an early hour. Grantaire strokes her gently, and she purrs, curling up on his pillow and going back to sleep. If only it were so easy for him. 

Grantaire brews coffee on the stove, leaning against the bench in jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt, feet bare against the faded linoleum. His kitchen is chilly, the cold sneaking in under his front door and making his breath cloud in front of him as he watches the coffee pot through half-closed eyes, yawning and running a hand through his hair by turns. Pandora comes wandering out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, tail held high, rubbing her cheek against his leg until he crouches down and draws her into his arms, scratching under her chin until she’s purring loud enough that he can feel the vibrations that rumble through her small body. 

Coffee in one hand and cat in the other, Grantaire pads back into his bedroom and sits on the worn carpet in front of the window, leaning back against the side of his desk. Paris is still dim, but there’s a faint glow that seems to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once, a product of the streetlights that light the way for no-one. Grantaire huffs a breath, watching the way the steam from his coffee curls in the air in front of his face. Pandora is a warm weight in his lap, and for a few minutes, he can forget that its three twenty in the morning, that he’s awake because of what he was dreaming about again, and that it’s cold as in here. 

By the time his coffee is gone, it’s still dim outside, sunrise a few hours off, but Grantaire has no chance of going back to sleepnow. So he does what he always does when he wakes up. He paints. 

The dropsheet across a section of living area floor is off-white, decorated liberally with paint splatters. It’s by the window, because the light is best there and it means that he doesn’t always have to have the lights on when he’s painting, the natural light helping him save on the power bill. Most of his paintbrushes are sticking out of a chipped mug full of dirty paint water where he left them last night before collapsing into bed. At least he remembered to close all the tubes of paint, so nothing has dried out in the few hours he’s been sleeping. There’s that to be thankful for, if nothing else. 

Shaking paint water of his brushes, Grantaire examines the painting in front of him with an overly-critical eye. On the canvas, Paris sprawls out, grey predawn light suffusing the scene, golden light from the streetlamps pooling on the footpaths. It looks a lot like the view from his window and for good reason; the view doesn’t change too much day-to-day. This is one painting he’ll never have to rush to finish, the material isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

He paints for a few hours, sitting on the battered bar stool in front of his easel, eyes flicking up to look out the window every so often. Once the sun rises, he stops looking out the window, but the image is still there in his mind, and it’s easy enough for him to work from memory. 

His phone rings, loud and shrill in the silent apartment. 

“Shit.” Grantaire snaps, wobbling dangerously on his stool and looking around for the phone. 

He finds it underneath a pile of abandoned sketches, and continues to curse softly when his scrabbling sends the sheets of thin paper cascading across the floor. 

“Hey.” He mumbles, wedging the phone against his shoulder and returning to the canvas, squinting critically at the scene once more. 

“Hey loser.” Says a disgustingly chirpy voice in his ear, and he cracks a smile because it’s Eponine, and she always makes him smile. 

“Bitch.” He mumbles back, and she laughs, warm and wild. 

“Meeting today.” She reminds him, and he groans loudly, “No, you’re not wiggling your way out of it R, get your ass down to the Musain or I’ll- Gavroche get down right now!” and she hangs up on him. 

Grantaire lets his phone drop into his hand and stares at it incredulously for a moment before sighing, and dragging himself off the stool. Eponine’s probably right, he should just go to the damn meeting. But first, he needs to put on something that’ll protect him from the freezing temperatures outside. 

 

It starts snowing when he’s halfway to the cafe, meaning he spends the last fifteen minutes of the walk ducking between awnings because he’s got no clue where he left his beanie, and his jacket doesn’t have a hood. Even so, by the time he reaches the Musain he has to stamp his feet on the doorstep to get rid of the snow and shake a few flakes out of his curls before pushing his way inside, behind the fogged-up windows. 

The Musain is filled with it’s usual mix of tired university students, women in gym clothes, and tourists who have stumbled upon it by accident. Musichetta is behind the counter, taking customer's orders, effortlessly switching between French for the locals and English for the confused tourists. When she catches sight of him she gives him a peculiar look, one that he knows means she wants to say something to him but won’t, because he’ll probably bite her head off if she tries. He must really look like crap if she’s making that face at him again. It’s been a while. 

Grantaire gives her a half-wave and slips through the crowd towards the door to the back room, ducking quickly through it. 

“Hey.” Eponine whispers when he drops unceremoniously into his seat at their table. He’s not entirely sure when his table became ‘their’ table, but it makes sense since they use it for mostly the same thing; mumbling sarcastic comments and generally pining like the idiots they are. Eponine sighs like a fairytale princess every time Pontmercy so much as breathes - well, she doesn’t, but Grantaire likes to tease her - and Grantaire ‘stares like a creeper’ at Enjolras - at least according to Eponine. 

“What’d I miss?” He whispers back, and Eponine makes a shushing motion at him and pushes her coffee in his direction. He sips at it and watches the meeting continue. He’s clearly missed something important, the usual array of notes, sketchbooks and portable electronic devices seem to have been banished into bags and pockets, and everyone is listening with rapt attention to Enjolras who is….talking about exactly the same stuff he normally talks about at meetings; communication, awareness, upcoming demonstrations and how to make them possible. But the mood of the room is strangely charged; there’s far too much energy in the air for a regular Tuesday morning. 

“Seriously,” he hisses, passing the coffee back, “What did I miss?”

Before Eponine gets a chance to tell him, the meeting breaks up, excited chatter breaking out among the Amis. Courfeyrac practically bounces up to him, radiating excitement

“Did you hear, Grantaire?” he asks, “We’ve got a backer!” He practically sings it. 

“Shit.” Says Grantaire, delighted. 

“I know.” Courfeyrac enthuses, before moving off again to hug Joly. 

Grantaire turns back to Eponine, a comment comparing Courfeyrac to an overexcited puppy already forming in his mouth, when a hand descends on his shoulder. 

He turns, expecting to see Enjolras standing behind him, ready to make a pointed comment about Grantaire’s tardiness, and that’s when his entire fucked-up world gets tipped violently on it’s side. Grantaire looks up into slate-grey eyes and beyond them into a pale face, the short, slicked down hair, and high, almost arrogant cheekbones. The face of a man who gets what he wants and isn’t accustomed to being told no. 

“Hello Grantaire.” Says that voice, the same chilling voice he remembers from nine years ago, when he was a scared, broken sixteen-year-old who didn’t know how to run.

He has no problem with that now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has warnings for: panic attacks and references to drug use.

The inside of the cafe seems to have crown a thousand time more crowded since he was last in there, only minutes before. People stare at him as he stumbles out of the back room, their eyes wide, faces confused as he shoves his way through the crowd, unable to avoid knocking into people and tables as he goes. He feels like everyone is watching him, feels that everyone knows. 

Suddenly, he outside, the cold air enough to shock a cough from his lungs, which transforms into violent retching. Hands braced on his knees, Grantaire doesn’t fight it, lets it happen, waits until his stomach has emptied itself on the pavement and then, when he’s sure he’s done; he runs. 

After all, he’s had enough time to get pretty good at it. 

He stops when his legs are shaking so hard that he has to collapse, back leant against the side of a building, snow already starting to soak through the worn denim of his jeans, knees drawn up. His mind won’t shut up, he can’t make sense of the mess of painfeardisgusthurtrun that is screaming in there and it then that he realises he’s crying, big, hiccuping, gasping sobs that leave his chest aching from the need to breathe and are likely drawing more attention to him than he wants (and he doesn't want attention right now, doesn’t want anyone to look at him, doesn’t want to be seen because they’ll know, somehow they’ll know) but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

“R?” A voice asks, just outside his field of vision, and he looks up, the ache in his neck suggesting how long he’s been sitting in the cold, to see a flash of glitter, pale skin and bright lips before the person in crouching at his level. 

“Holy fuck, R.” Montparnasse says, and Grantaire sags against the wall with something that isn't so much relief as exhaustion. Montparnasse doesn’t ask questions, never has. He and Grantaire aren’t exactly friends, but when you spend all of senior year smoking illicit substances behind the bike shed, some sort of fucked-up bond tends to form. 

Montparnasse’s lipstick doesn’t match his shirt, but Grantaire isn’t focussing on that right now, he’s more concerned about what Montparnasse is saying. 

“You look like shit.” The other man says, in his usual blunt fashion, “Come on, I’m taking you back to mine.” He gets a hand around Grantaire’s arm and tugs, Grantaire somehow finding the strength in his muscles to push himself to his feet, legs shaking, and follow him down the street. 

He doesn’t look around, doesn’t take stock of the neighbourhood so it’s a surprise how soon they arrive at Montparnasse’s building and climb to the third floor. 

Montparnasse’s apartment has always reminded Grantaire of a brothel. Or, how he imagines a brother would look, at least. The walls are all different colours, purple, red, red, black, the furniture is dark and heavy, in some cases drape with fabric, and there’s a truly ridiculous amount of glitter everywhere. Normally, Grantaire would think of something sarcastic to say. Today, he just lets Montparnasse guide him into a black, velvet covered armchair and hand him a glass he knows contains vodka. 

Grantaire doesn’t drink. He just looks at the glass in his hand, watching the clear liquid dance in time with the tremor he can feel ricocheting through his entire body, like he’s about to shake apart into a million shards. Montparnasse mostly ignores him, doing...something, Grantaire isn’t sure what, but then a sharp, chemical scent invades, and he realises Montparnasse is painting his nails. He doesn’t talk to Grantaire, doesn’t ask, just sits there a few feet away and paints his nails. It’s not exactly comforting, but it is grounding in some weird way. 

A sudden, furious banging breaks the silence. Montparnasse knocks over the bottle of nail polish, spilling it on the black end table and swearing in several languages as he scrambles to his feet, smoothes down his shirt and downright glides to the door, which he wrenches open to reveal Jehan Prouvaire, who looks absolutely livid. 

“Move.” Jehan snaps, hand on hips. 

“Well hello Prouvaire,” Montparnasse drawls, “How nice to see you again? Come to finally take me up on my offer of a decent wardrobe have you?” 

“I’ve come,” Jehan snarls, “For my friend.” 

Montparnasse is pushed aside, and suddenly Jehan is only a short way from Grantaire. 

“Grantaire?” Jehan asks, voice gentle. 

Grantaire looks up at Jehan, and almost manages a smile. 

“Hey.” He replies softly. His voice sounds like he’s been swallowing broken glass. 

Jehan offers him a hand, and for the second time that day, Grantaire lets someone pull him up until they’re standing side-by-side. The still full glass in his hand is whisked away, Jehan thrusting it at Montparnasse as they leave the apartment. Jehan’s hands are small, but warm and soft as Grantaire finds his hair being pushed gently out of his face and tucked up under a beanie that Jehan has produced from a jacket pocket. One of Jehan’s many scarves is wrapped around his neck and for a second, the scents of lavender, vanilla and incense threaten to overwhelm him, but it’s so quintessentially Jehan that Grantaire finds he can just sink into it for a moment. Jehan is here with them, it’s just the two of them, he’s seen what Jehan will do to defend a friend, he’s as safe as he can get with Jehan by his side. 

One part of his brain asks him if that is safe enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, Dem actually got off their ass and re-wrote the second chapter of this thing. And produced an outline. Currently working on ch 3
> 
> Remember, comments are love and encourage me to write more <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why this chapter doesn't match up with what you've previously read, go back. Chapters one and two have been updated (see, I haven't been entirely idle) 
> 
> Warnings: discussion of past sexual assault (non-detailed)

Jehan’s hand stays wrapped around Grantaire’s as the two of them tramp through the light covering of slushy snow. The streets are quieter now, most people are elsewhere, in offices and lecture halls and cafes, but not here, not out on the streets, and for that, Grantaire is grateful. He almost wants to let go of Jehan’s hand, to make the two of them even less obvious, but Jehan is wearing a thick sweater with sunflowers on it, galaxy leggings, and at least three scarves in wildly different colours. Fading into the background isn’t an option here. 

Grantaire doesn’t ask where they’re going, not because he trusts Jehan - which he does generally, even if he doesn’t trust anyone right now - but he’s not surprised when they end up outside Eponine’s building. Only fair that Jehan would bring him to Ep, she gets him in a way the others don’t. He doesn’t have to hold back around her, she’s almost certainly heard worse. 

Eponine’s door flies open before Jehan can even knock, and Eponine in there, eyes wide and concerned, short hair flying around her face and she almost throws herself at the two of them, asking urgent questions, alternating between French and Mandarin. Jehan replies to the French and lets go of Grantaire’s hand. Instantly, Grantaire wants to reach out to Jehan again, but then Eponine has both of his hands wrapped in hers, and is pulling him into her flat, all the while offering Jehan sanctuary from the cold and being politely refused, thanking Jehan for finding Grantaire and then the door is closed and Grantaire is being pulled towards the little space heater Eponine has set up between her and Gavroche’s beds, in the little curtained corner that serves them as a bedroom. 

All the pillows and blankets are pushed into a pile on top of Eponine’s mattress, and she kicks off her scuffed Doc Marten’s before climbing into the nest and reaching out to him with both hands. He goes to her, because this at least feels familiar, this is what they do every time things get bad, be it at her place or his. Sometimes he’s the one reaching out to her instead.

Today he just crawls into her embrace, chest against hers, chin hooked over her thin shoulder. She wraps her arms tight around his back, running her fingers up and down the line of his spine, in time with his breathing. As he calms a little, her movements slow. She takes one hand from his back to run it through his disarrayed curls, tender and gentle, tugging lightly at the knots until they yield to her skilled fingers. 

Grantaire knows how this works. They stay here and get warm until he feels like talking to her, then he talks, and she listens, and then they drink. It’s a tried and tested formula. 

But Eponine doesn’t wait for him to speak today. Fingers still working through his thick hair she asks simply, “Who is he? Really?” 

Grantaire takes a deep, shuddery breath. Thinks through it all. “My brother in law.” he says, the tension and fear still inside him fighting the relaxing pressure of Eponine’s hands and his own exhaustion. He wants to run. Wants to stay. Doesn’t want to be having this conversation. Doesn’t want to stay silent anymore. 

“That’s not all of it though.” Eponine doesn’t ask. She already knows. 

“No.” 

Silence for a few minutes. “What did he do to you Grantaire?” 

Grantaire lets out a single-syllable, bitter laugh. “What do you think he did, Ep?” he doesn’t want to spill this to her, doesn’t want to hear her gasp and feel her arms tighten around him. He doesn’t want her to pity him. 

“I can guess.” Eponine says, and her gentleness is infuriating, “But I don’t want to assume. Not about this.” Her hands in his hair still, resting flat against his curls, and he almost wishes she’d start again, but her fingers don’t move. 

“Grantaire.” Her voice isn’t hard exactly, there’s no anger there, but he can sense that she’s running out of strength to argue with him. This is her last resort. Her question hits him like a slap. “Did he rape you?”

Grantaire wants so badly not to tell her. He wants so badly to lie. But Eponine knows, knows when he’s lying, knowns when he’s telling twisted half-truths so instead he just breathes “Yes” into the side of her neck. It’s feels like an admission, but at the same time it feels like giving up the fight. 

Eponine doesn’t gasp in sympathy, but her fingers to tighten in his hair, nails scraping his scalp, tugging on the curls. For a moment he can focus on that, the pain is good, it’s grounding, and then something outside their little alcove smashes, shards of glass shattering on the faded, scuffed lino. 

Someone starts swearing, and Grantaire’s not an idiot, he knows that voice as well as Eponine's or his own, he’s obsessed over it, he’s listened to that voice make impassioned speeches, whip a room full of students into a frenzy, and criticise his own opinions more times than he could ever count. 

Enjolras. 

Grantaire is out of Eponine’s embrace and one his feet in seconds, pillows scattering. 

“What the fuck Eponine?” He snarls, just as Enjolras pushes the curtain aside, shattering the illusion of privacy for good, entering their alcove. “What’s he doing here?” Grantaire gestures wildly ad Enjolras, who opens his mouth to defend himself, but Grantaire is angry now, he’s not letting anyone have a chance to defend themselves. “What, so you invite him here so he can hear my pathetic sob story and then what? Huh?” He rounds on Enjolras, “So,” he snaps, “Now you know. So you can fuck off and leave me alone.” 

 

“Grantaire…” Enjolras reaches out for him, blue eyes wide and concerned. 

Grantaire ignores the offered hand, pushing roughly past him towards the front door. “Fuck. Off.” He grits out, managing to get the door open. He slams it on the way out, hearing the windowpanes rattle. For a second he almost feels guilty, Eponine’s apartment sucks enough as is, it doesn’t need him adding to the damage, but then he remembers that she brought Enjolras there, and didn’t tell him, leaving him to spill everything to her with him listening in. And Grantaire...Grantaire doesn’t want Enjolras to know this about him. Doesn't want him to know about the part of him that was broken and spoiled so long ago now that he doesn’t really remember how he was before. He doesn’t want Enjolras to see that. But it’s too late now. 

As he stalks through the snow, Grantaire can think of only one thing. 

Enjolras knows.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day? Everyone be proud of me! 
> 
> Warnings for: non-graphic flashbacks of sexual-assault, depression, low-key anxiety attack (also Grantaire drawing negative conclusions without having all the information, but I don't really know how to warn for that or if I need to so yeah).

His flat looks exactly how it looked when he left it this morning, except the light coming in through the windows is orange now, painting the floor in shades like fire. Pandora comes running when she hears his key in the lock and twines around his legs as he locks the door, sliding the bolt home and putting the chain in place. He doesn’t usually even bother to lock it. She jumps out of the way when he starts shedding layers, moving towards the bathroom with intent. 

Grantaire runs the shower as hot as it can go, and it still doesn’t feel hot enough. He stands under the water, letting it wash over him, concentrating on the heat instead of on his thoughts. It works for a little bit, then his mind starts screaming at him again. 

He needs to get clean. 

Grantaire takes up the soap, scrubbing at his skin viciously, as if he can erase the memory of those hands on his body. He knows no trace of him remains, but it still feels like he’s touching him, like he can feel his breath against his cheek and in his ear, can still hear everything he’d said to him, the names he’d called him, the threats he’d made. Grantaire had thought moving so far away would have been enough to escape him. 

Somewhere out in the flat, his phone rings, the sound echoing. 

He ignores it, scrubs harder. 

Gets out of the shower. 

Goes into his bedroom. 

Ignores the clothes on the floor. 

Finds something warm-looking in his closet. 

Gets into bed. 

Sleeps. 

He wakes because he feels like his body is on fire. He’s kicked the blankets onto the floor and managed to get half-way out of his shirt without even waking. He lurches to his feet and stumbles back into the bathroom, runs the cold tap and splashes water onto his face. He doesn’t feel any better for it. 

His reflection has grey skin and hollow eyes. He stares back for a moment, swaying slightly in place, then goes back to bed. 

Ten minutes later he’s shivering under both of the blankets he owns, curled into a miserable ball with not an inch of himself uncovered. Pandora leaps onto the bed, as if sensing his discomfort, and pushes her way under the blankets. She sniffs him, then curls up against his chest. His fingers find their way to her head and he strokes her gently. Her purring is soothing, and he falls into a fevered half-doze, occasionally clawing his way to consciousness to shove the blankets off him or pull them back up again. 

All the while he dreams of hands on his skin and a voice in his ear. 

***

He wakes because Pandora is standing on his face. 

Grantaire flails for a moment, tangled in the blankets, causing the cat to jump clear, before managing himself into a sitting position. 

“What?” he asks the small face staring up at him from his floor. His throat feels raw, but at least he can actually speak. Pan meows loudly and insistently. There’s early afternoon sunlight coming in through the window. 

“Okay,” Grantaire groans, dragging himself out of bed, “Food. Right.” Leaving the blankets wherever they fall, the goes to the kitchen, get down the cat food from the cupboard, and tips some into Pan’s bowl. She makes a beeline for it, clearly hungry, and he feels a stab of guilt. He’s never forgotten to feed her like that before. 

After topping up her water bowl, which thankfully wasn’t empty yet, Grantaire goes back in the direction of his bedroom. His phone catches his eye on the way there, sitting on the floor near where he’d kicked off his jeans yesterday. Or was it the day before. He realises he has not idea of the date. He stoops to pick it up, battling the feeling of dizziness that comes over him as he does, and turns it on. 

Notifications flood the screen, missed calls, voicemails and messages on multiple social media platforms. He goes through them. They’re from his friends, the Amis, asking where he is, if he’s alright. There’s even one from Montparnasse. There’s nothing from Enjolras, which makes sense because he’s the one who heard Grantaire’s confession to Eponine, of course he doesn’t want to talk to him. He probably wants nothing to do with him ever again, Grantaire thinks, swiping away another message from Jehan before he can read it. He’s not sure he blames him. 

He has three missed calls from an unknown number. No messages, no voicemails. They’re spaced about five minutes apart, late yesterday evening. Grantaire feels sick. How did Jacques get ahold of his number? He probably got it before anyone knew who he was to Grantaire, probably saw him leave the cafe and slid his way up to one of the Amis, faked concern and asked for his number. Most likely Marius, Grantaire thinks. Marius looks and acts awkward and defenseless enough that Jacques would have easily been able to get the number from him. Just thinking about it makes him furious. How dare he go near his friends. 

Grantaire deletes the notifications, blocks the number. Stares at his phone in his hand. He wants to call Enjolras. Wants to call him and tell him that he’s an ass, that he hates him, that he’d better not tell anyone about what he heard. But he also wants to warn him. He knows Jacques, knows who is mostly likely to be at risk from him. Even if he can never go back there, at least he can offer some warning. 

He calls Enjolras. The phone doesn’t even ring, just dumps the call straight away. He tries again. Same result. He considers sending a text, but doesn’t know what to write. Eventually he goes back into his room, leaves his phone on the floor by his bed, switched off. He crawls back under the blankets and goes back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, comments motivate me to write faster!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don't think there are ay warnings this time round. Just like, keep in mind the previous content of the story. Nothing new.

The days take on a strange pattern after that. 

He rises around noon, feeds Pandora, checks his phone and deletes notifications. He eats if he feels like it. He looks at the painting on his easel, but doesn’t work on it. He sits by the window and watches the snow. He goes back to bed in the early evening and sleeps through to the next day. It’s simple. He doesn’t have to think about anything but the way the sky looks, the weak sunlight on the floor, the clouds, and remembering to feed his cat. It’s almost peaceful. 

What might be a week into this, might be two, he’s awoken early one morning by someone hammering on his front door. 

Grantaire flinches, hiding underneath his blankets as if they will protect him from whoever’s out there. He put one arm out into the cold air of the bedroom and scrabbles for his phone, unlocks it and starts reading through the messages. No-one’s said they’re coming over. No-one’s even threatened to come over if he doesn't respond. He thinks again of that blocked number from the first day. Burrows deeper, closes his eyes, waits. 

Eventually, whoever’s outside the door (and Grantaire knows who it is, of course he knows, wonders how Jacques got his address) gives up, silence reigns in the flat, and Grantaire lets out a long, shaky exhale. 

He’s just started to drift off to sleep when he hears a low scraping sound. He jolts awake, heart thudding rapidly in his chest. He knows what the sound is. Has heard it enough times, late at night, usually accompanied by Eponine swearing as she tumbles through his kitchen window, which doesn’t have a working lock and can be pushed open easily enough from outside. And climbing the fire escape isn’t that difficult. It wouldn’t be hard to work out which flat is his; there are sketches taped to the top half of the window that are undeniably his work. 

Whoever’s just opened his window lands on his kitchen floor with a muted thud, and curses softly. Grantaire freezes. He can’t be certain, but he knows whoever it is, it isn’t Jacques. Pandora leaps from his bed and goes running towards the kitchen, meowing loudly. 

Moving cautiously, Grantaire slides out of his bed, careful to make as little noise as possible. Whoever’s in his flat, they’re not trying to be quiet; their footfalls are loud as they make their way out of the kitchen. 

“Grantaire? Hey, Grantaire, you here?” 

Shit. 

It’s Enjolras. Enjolras of all people has climbed up the fire escape, opened his kitchen window from the outside, and broken into his flat. Enjolras, who is now standing in his bedroom doorway, hair slightly dishevelled, with Pandora circling his legs, brows knit in confusion at the sight of Grantaire, standing in the middle of the room, staring back at him. 

“What do you want?” Grantaire tries not to snap, but he’s pretty sure he deserves at least an explanation. “What are you doing here?” He takes a few steps forward, and Enjolras doesn’t back down. 

“I was worried about you.” He replies, voice perfectly even, “We all were. We’ve been calling you for days Grantaire, ever since...ever since you vanished. You weren’t answering your phone, and when you didn’t answer the door to Combeferre this morning I was worried you were hurt.” He runs a hand through his golden curls, further displacing them. “I asked Eponine for advice.” 

“And she told you how to get into my flat.” Grantaire finished for him, “Great, well, I’m alive, you can see that. You’ve done your bit, now get out.” 

“Grantaire…” 

 

“No, get out.” Grantaire stalks out of the bedroom, towards the front door, “And what do you mean ‘we’ were concerned? I haven’t gotten a single call from you, so don’t give me that shit about ‘caring about my wellbeing’ or whatever.” He turns, glaring at Enjolras with energy he hasn’t felt in days. 

“Grantaire, I’ve been calling you for days.” Enjolras says, and he sounds so confused that Grantaire stops and stares at him in stunned silence for a moment. 

Grantaire reaches for his phone still on the floor, has to bend to pick it up. He finds his call log and thrusts the phone at Enjolras. Enjolras looks over it, forehead crinkling as he reads. He hands the phone back. Gets out his own. Presents Grantaire with his own call log. Sure enough, every single day for the last ten, there are calls to what is, unmistakably, Grantaire’s number. 

“What...the fuck?” Grantaire asks. 

Enjolras nods in agreement, “I thought perhaps you had your phone turned off, but everyone else was getting through to your voicemail. Did you block my new number? I didn’t even think you had it. I totally understand if you don’t wanna talk to me, but I need you to see this before you do anything rash.” He’s reaching into his battered messenger bag and drawing something out. “It’s this morning’s.” He says, and throws the newspaper down on the kitchen table like it’s a challenge. 

Grantaire doesn’t move for a second, just stares down at the headline in silence, the words not sinking in. He turns his eyes to the picture, flinches for a second because the grey eyes of the man in the photograph are chilling and familiar and then he looks further, sees the handcuffs, the prison uniform, the police officers on either side of him. 

“What?” he says, somewhat stupidly, looking up at Enjolras, who is smiling tentatively now. 

Enjolras shrugs, “Anonymous tip-off to the police. By which I mean Cosette whispered in her father-in-law’s ear that our now former backer made her nervous. Full background check later and I think half the officers in Paris turned up to our meeting.” He explains, “Turns out they’ve been looking for him in connection to several assault and other offences for some time.”

Grantaire flinches, hands balling into fists, “I wasn’t the only one?” He asks. 

“No,” Enjolras says softly, “But now there won’t be any more. Even when it goes to court, there's enough evidence to put him behind bars for life." 

Grantaire snorts, spirits somewhat refreshed by this news, “You never know.” He says, “He’s a slippery bastard, he’ll work his way out of anything. You don’t know him.” 

“But I know you.” Enjolras replies, staring at him intently now, “And I - we all miss you at meetings. He’s gone Grantaire, you can come back. If you want, that is.” He adds hastily. 

Grantaire turns it over in his mind. He could go back. He could see his friends again. Could sit in the back of the meetings with Eponine and crack terrible jokes and watch Enjolras while he speaks with such passion. But then he realises; if he goes back, it won’t be like that. Everyone will walk on eggshells around him, will speak softly in case they upset him, they’ll avoid mentioning it even though they obviously want to, they’ll ask him if he’s okay. No, he can’t do that. 

“Who knows?” He asks, trying not to hope, “About...what he did? To me.” He clarifies. 

“Just Eponine and I.” Enjolras says, “Everyone else thinks you’ve got the flu. Did you really think I’d tell them all?” 

“I...I didn’t know what to think.’ Grantaire admits, he runs a hand through his hair, makes his decision, “I guess I’m coming back then.” He offers Enjolras a slight smile. “When’s the next meeting?” 

“In about half an hour.” Enjolras admits, “If you don’t want to come this week I understand, I can tell the other’s you’re still not feeling well if you like.” 

Grantaire shakes his head, “No,” He says, “Better to bite the bullet and get it over with right?” He nods, “Half an hour? I’m gonna go shower, see you there?” 

Enjolras shrugs, “I don’t mind waiting.” he offers, “Besides, Pandora seems quite taken with me.” He smiles, bending to scoop the cat into his arms. Grantaire is about to warn him that she’ll probably start scratching the second her paws leave the floor, but he’s astounded to see that she allows him to lift her into his arms, and is even purring as he strokes her head. 

“Shower. Right.” He says, nodding, “Won’t be long.” 

He head back to his bedroom. He knows he’s got clean clothes somewhere here, there question is, where?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, I know Jacques wouldn't have ended up imprisoned that fast. I don't care. I'm handwaving it for dramatic purposes.
> 
> One more chapter to go, guys!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I'm sorry guys! This should have turned up a lot earlier, but between falling into other fandoms then spending about a month in hospital, I kind of...forgot. 
> 
> This chapter is jut a little bit of filler before the next wave of excitement; it's somewhat short and uninteresting, so I apologise if anyone was excited for some more drama; this isn't it. More to come soon (I promise!).

As they near the Musain, Grantaire starts to feel panic rising in his chest. He shoves it down, knows he’s being stupid, but something must show on his face, and Enjolras, who has been updating him on the Amis progress since his last meeting, cuts himself off mid-sentence. 

 

“Are you alright Grantaire?” He asks. 

 

Grantaire nods. “Fine.” He insists, but he clearly must look like shit, because Enjolras reaches for his hand and clasps it in his. 

 

“You don’t have to do this.” He offers, the furrow between his brows returning “You can go back home if you want.” 

 

_Like hell I can_ Grantaire thinks to himself. He’s come this far, it’d be pathetic to turn tail and run now. Especially in front of Enjolras, who might finally have stopped thinking Grantaire is as weak as he feels right now. Outwardly, he shrugs, and plasters on his characteristic lopsided smirk, “Where’s the fun in that?” He asks, playing it off as best he can, “Besides, I’ve been dying for some of ‘Chetta’s coffee.” 

 

He starts walking before Enjolras can object, looking straight ahead. Enjolras matches his pace easily, and doesn’t let go of his hand.

 

***

 

“R, you bastard!” Greets Grantaire as he enters the Musain’s back room, followed by Bahorel tackling him in a massive bear-hug, which Enjolras steps to the side, dropping Grantaire’s hand in the process, to avoid. 

 

Bahorel lifts Grantaire bodily off his feet and swings him around in a half-circle before setting him down and attempting to ruffle his already tousled hair. Grantaire slaps his hand away, his fake smile being replaced with one that feels genuine, if a little shaky. 

 

“Hi Bahorel.” He replies, “How’s my favourite lawer-to-be?”

 

Bahorel gives Grantaire a look of mock-outrage, and points a theatrically quivering finger at him, “How dare you besmirch my name with that false title!” He cries dramatically, pressing his other hand to his heart. 

 

Grantaire smirks back, ducking away from Bahorel and crossing to the table in the back corner, where Eponine is sitting, stubbornly not looking at him, her gaze focused on the front of the room. 

 

“Hi, Ep.” Grantaire says, his voice strangely small. 

 

She looks up at him, and for a moment Grantaire thinks he can see moisture at the corners of her eyes, but then she blinks and it clears. 

 

“Hi.” She breathes, and he can hear the fear in her voice, see it behind her eyes. He’s still angry at her, but he also isn’t, so he sprawls into his usual seat and nudges her with his shoulder, looking pointedly at her coffee. She sighs and nudges it over. He takes a drink a passes it back. She smiles at him, and he knows that a tentative peace has been reached. There will be a time to talk things over later, a time to drink and cry and shout and eventually forgive, but for now; things will be okay. 

 

The meeting begins, Enjolras taking his place at the front of the room, beginning in on a recap of events since the last meeting. Grantaire leans back in his seat, tipping at back against until he is leaning against the wall, and just watches Enjolras. 

 

Maybe things can be alright after all.


	7. Chapter 7

During the meeting, Grantaire takes the time to look around the room at his friends. Everyone is here, he notes. Even Musichetta is standing near the door, apron still on, having passed over her duties at the till to one of her staff for the duration of the meeting. Grantaire searches for a moment and finds Marius and Cosette. The normally discreet couple and sitting close together, and Grantaire can see that Marius has one of Cosette’s hands wrapped in both of his own. He makes a mental note to check on them if he gets time. He’s momentarily ashamed that his bullshit had to come anywhere near them, even though Enjolras had already told him that it is in no way Grantaire’s fault that Jacques found his way to _Les Amis_. 

 

The meeting breaks up, noise filling the room, and suddenly Grantaire finds himself once more crowded by his friends, all of them talking at once, wishing him well and telling him that they’ve missed him in meetings. Courfeyrac hugs him, his grip strong and his head resting on Grantaire’s chest, thick curls tickling his nose. Only Joly keeps his distance, anxious about not catching Grantaire’s ‘cold’ and Grantaire forces himself to crack a smile and insist he isn’t contagious.

 

As people filter out, Grantaire finds himself standing on his own. Normally he’s straight out the door after a meeting, either to find a bar or to find his bed, but neither of them hold any appeal right about now. He doesn’t want to go out to drink, to be alone in a room full of people and loud music, or to be alone in his own cold flat. He’s spent so much time inside those walls recently that he’s sure he’d go mad if he went back home. 

 

“Hey.” 

 

Enjolras is at his side suddenly, and Grantaire jumps a little, not expecting him to be there at all, let alone so suddenly and silently. 

 

“You alright?” Enjolras asks, a frown of concern making a line appear between his eyebrows again. 

 

“Huh? Yeah.” Grantaire replies. Enjolras’ concern still comes as a surprise to him, and absently Grantaire thinks that it probably shouldn’t, after all the guy literally broke into his flat to see if he was alright; asking him if he’s alright kind of pales in comparison to that. 

 

“Well, I’m headed out, if...if you wanted someone to walk with, your place is between mine and here so…” ENjolras offers, trailing off and Grantaire notices with some detached part of his brain that Enjolras...Enjolras is _blushing_. 

 

“Um, yeah, sure.” Grantaire says, glancing around the room. Marius and Cosette are gone, but Eponine is still sitting at her table, “Just give me a sec to say goodbye to Eponine?” He asks. 

 

Enjolras nods, turning to say something to Combeferre, and Grantaire crosses the room to Eponine. 

 

She sees him as he approaches her once more, and she stands. 

 

“Grantaire, I- I’m sorry.” She starts, her hands moving in that way they do when she’s nervous and trying to hide it. “I shouldn’t have let Enjolras eavesdrop like that, I should have told you he was there, I should have-”

 

“Forget it Ep.” Grantaire says, managing to conjure up a smile, “What you did was fucking stupid and it pissed me off, but...it may have been for the best.”

 

He watches as she sighs in relief, the tension leaving her in an instant, and holds out his arms to her, “Friends?” 

 

Eponine hugs him. “Friends.” She mumbles into his chest. He can feel her shoulders shaking. 

 

“Are you crying?” He asks her softly. 

 

“No, I’m just allergic to jerks.” She quotes, not looking up, “And I’m hugging the biggest one in the room right now.” 

 

“Rude.” He mumbles against her hair, but he’s smiling as he says it.

 

Eponine gives him one last squeeze and slips out of his arms. “I’ll see you.” She says. It’s their customary parting; a promise that they’ll see one another again, no matter what. Grantaire smiles properly.

 

“I’ll see you.” He replies, watching her leave, and turning back to look for Enjolras, who is finishing his conversation with Combeferre. 

 

“Ready?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire nods. 

 

They slip out into the late afternoon sunlight, and as they round the corner from the Musain, Enjolras reaches for Grantaire’s hand. After a second, Grantaire, startled, takes it. 

 

“Is this okay?” Enjolras asks, his grip already loosening. 

 

Grantaire squeezes Enjolras’ hand. “Yes.” He replies, “This is okay.” 

 

As they walk away from the Musain, Grantaire is smiling again.


	8. Chapter 8

There’s a meeting scheduled on Christmas eve. Far be it from Enjolras’ to postpone the meeting just because it’s Christmas the next day. When Grantaire has suggested it once, he’d been treated to lengthy diatribe on the evils of Christmas as a commercialist holiday originally stolen from the Pagan faith, and that was the point that Grantaire had realised Enjolras didn’t really _do_ Christmas, which had been both a total surprise and completely predictable. 

Grantaire is readying himself for the meeting when someone knocks on his door. Pandora leaps from the kitchen table - where she isn’t technically supposed to be but she’d looked so peaceful sleeping there - and goes running towards the door, meowing. 

Shaking his head and muttering about ‘guard cats’, Grantaire grabs his battered messenger bag from the bench, shoves his phone into his pocket and heads down the short corridor to his front door. 

When he opens the door Enjolras is standing there, just as Grantaire had expected him to be. It’s been nearly six weeks since Grantaire had returned to the meetings, and still Enjolras turns up at his door each week, and they walk together. Grantaire would be lying if he said he didn’t like it, especially as Enjolras has continued to reach for Grantaire’s hand on the walks both there and back. 

Pandora tries to make a dash past Grantaire’s legs to greet Enjolras, and he reaches to scoop her up, placing her down inside the flat once more. 

“Hey.” He greets Enjolras with a lopsided smile, tugging on his beanie and reaching out a hand. Enjolras takes it in his, and they start the walk down the corridor to the stairwell, and the cold afternoon beyond. 

***  
It’s started snowing while they were in the meeting. Enjolras and Grantaire exit the Musain to find the cold flakes drifting serenely from the sky. Enjolras shivers and tucks his scarf tighter into his jacket. Grantaire puts his beanie back on. They start walking towards Grantaire’s building, hands linked, exchanging opinions on the topics of the meeting. These conversations aren’t as heated; Enjolras isn’t trying to impress an entire room of people here, and Grantaire isn’t trying to steal everyone’s attention. 

“You know,” Enjolras says, during a brief lapse in conversation, “I really value these conversations. You’ve really helped me see things from a different angle.” 

Grantaire snorts, “Yeah,” he replies, thinking how completely opposite some of their opinions have been, “Right angle.” 

“Can’t have a triangle without one.” Enjolras replies. 

“Can too.” Grantaire retorts. 

“Damn.” Enjolras mutters, “You’re right.”

Grantaire snorts a laugh, and moments later, Enjolras is laughing too, and soon they’re laughing so hard they have to stop walking and cling to one another under a streetlight, even though it wasn’t particularly funny in the first place. 

As they finally get a hold of themselves, Grantaire realises that Enjolras is looking at him intently, as if scrutinising him. Grantaire stops where he is reaching for Enjolras’ hand to start walking again, returns his gaze with slight confusion. 

The moment lengthens between them, standing there in the snow beneath the streetlamp, looking into one another’s eyes. 

The moment snaps when Enjolras leans forward and presses his mouth against Grantaire’s, lips icy cold against his, hands reaching out out to cup Grantaire’s face. 

Grantaire remains frozen for a full second, brain struggling to process what is happening. Then, some part of his mind that is still capable of rational thought takes over, and he kisses Enjolras back, wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist and pulling him close. 

They part, but remain close together, Enjolras’ arms twined loosely around Grantaire’s neck, Grantaire’s at Enjolras’ waist. Grantaire can see their breath clouding in the air between them. 

“So.” Grantaire says. 

“So.” Enjolras echos. 

“Okay.” Grantaire nods. He takes Enjolras’ hand in his, wrapping his fingers tight around the other man’s. 

“Okay.” Enjolras replies, squeezing Grantaire’s hand in his, as they set off through the snow, hand in hand, towards the future.

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it. It's over (for now). 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and this fic, it's been a long road. 
> 
> Enjoy xxx


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